Crystalline
by Allagenda-domsitzers-chan
Summary: Certain occurrences can bring people together. What some of these people didn't know was that they were always meant to meet, but now seemed like the right time. At least, Fate thought so.


His heavy boots crunched the snow under them. He dragged a heavy carcass behind him, all life gone from it. There was a place that he needed to go, and he would drag the bloody corpse with him. He'd been tottering to the edge of North Canada and Alaska, hoping that the border would bring some sort of warmth...and his mother.

His father had died here, researching the life and terrain. The history books at home about this dang tundra hadn't been enough for him...so he'd taken his 8 year old son out there to confirm the information written to be truth. But even the prospect of how the boy's health could drop drastically, it wasn't enough to stop him from going. Only death had finished his expedition. And even now, trudging through the snow, he still thought his father's soul was making its way to the freezing, desolate wasteland called the North Pole.

He wiggled his toes, trying to regain feeling in them. Ever since he'd began walking back, he'd found that his feet seemed indefinitely cold. He'd worried and began to rub them. But now, it went on and off, instead of what seemed like permanently. It was a sort of improvement over before, though. At least they weren't burning, or not even there. Some people didn't even have feet, or legs.

He looked up again, to see a tiny line of green on the horizon. Hope flickered through him like no other feeling, and his knobbly knees began to creak as his speed quickened. It was so small... but it was there. He was almost there. He had to make it.

His mind befuddled more as he progressed to the green. The boots slowed him down, and the snow even more so. Eventually, he had to drop his father's dead body to keep him from collapsing. It gave him a small boost, but only a small one. Not enough to make it to the grassy green that lay before him. He tried, at least. He would have died trying. That was best, right?

As he slowed, he found himself thirsty. He reached for the pack on his back, grabbing for the water bottle. He didn't sit down, but instead crouched painfully and drank. He drained the bottle, then got back up. He threw it down after a moment's hesitation, knowing it was no use to him anymore. His body was too cold for the snow to heat up and make water. He should at least keep going and reduce his load.

But the little green line was a lot farther than it looked. The moon was rising overhead when it only seemed an inch closer. But the boy, determined to make it there, was trying his hardest to make it grow, make it bigger. Make himself warmer. But his wishing wasn't enough. The daylight streamed from behind him, so he knew he was veering East. He waited until it was to his right before going forwards. Now he was thankful for knowing that; it would save him a lot of time.  
But his body was flat out refusing to go forwards. His eyelids drooped, his feet dragged against the ground, his tongue was parched from the lack of water, then frozen from the cold, and his body wouldn't heat up any snow. His stomach grumbled, and the days and nights just seemed to blend into one. But surprisingly, he lasted a good 13 days on the tundra.

On the 14th day, he felt dizzier than ever. He puked twice in one hour, and eventually ran out of food to throw up. The freezing snow made him tired, the green line refusing to come closer to him, and the cold never leaving. His nose was numbed so badly he not dared to touch it, his feet like molten lead, his hands stuck in gloves of ice. His hat had blown off, his coat nearly useless, being stuffed with snow, and his warm boots got stuck in a sloshy patch of ice. He didn't really recognize water anymore, only the cold.

But what he didn't realize was that the green line was now stretched to the size of a football field. His mind was too used to seeing a thin line, and so it looked that way to his eyes. The warmth that had begun to thaw him wasn't enough to break through his icy body. The boy was starting to think of who would get his room after he died. He knew he wouldn't make it...

He tripped and fell hard, onto his face, into the cold and bitter snow. Snow, snow, snow. It surrounded him like a cave, trapping him. The tiny escape was too far...too far...

"N-n-n-no..."His teeth chattered. It sapped the energy out of him to even move his jaw, much more to speak. The ground beneath him begun to collapse. He shook with fear, cold, and prepared for the death that awaited him. Then, turning back to see if he could still see his hat as a marker of small improvement, a palace, a land of glittery white took form beneath his very eyes. It was gorgeous. His eyes were sore from looking at it, and he saw its captivating beauty. How could snow be so deceiving if it was so pretty? Then, the edges of it began to turn to black. He remembered his death. But it was nice to die somewhere so...pretty...

His hands shoved under his chest uninvoluintarily, forcing him up and making the black edges go away. How, and why? But his feet moved on their own, making it out of the cave and making the green line grow. He gasped at the rate it was going up to him, almost like the wind did. But then, the force that had made him go farther pulled away as the snow was only a few yards away from fading into wet grass. He tripped again, this time, the black coming instantly. He had been so close..right on the border. Right there...

He fell down onto his stomach, the pain in his body spreading like leaves from a fallen tree in a windy storm. The black sped up, and in no time, he was unconscious.  
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Two Minutes Earlier….

"Hey, Greening."

"Yeah?"

"Tell me if you see that."

"... that Resistance?"

"Nah, too bright of a red. Hair is a near perfect match though, huh?"

"Yeah, Oaks, sure."

"Wanna see if he is Resistance, or keep him on our side?"

"Kid looks frozen."

"I can see footprints. Fresh ones." Then, Oaks turned around. "Artis!" A teen polishing a thin dagger turned around, showing a young face, around 17 or real name was Christopher, but this was the Militia. They just used last names.

"Yes, sir?" He stood up, stowing the knife back into its sheath. What was this for, a novel or something? Who knew.

"Get the kid down there and haul him up. " The trapdoor opened, and Chris slid down the prepared ladder. He hit the ground and at once sprinted to the young boy before him. Something caught on to Chris immediately- the color of his hair. It was a deep red, like blood. But the boy wasn't bleeding- it was a wildly beautiful color, though, and realistic. It would fool anyone who looked from a distance, but it was easy to see it was hair was just naturally this shade of red from up close.

He scooped up the boy with one hand, took a second to catch his breath, and then dashed back to the ladder. After a moment, two other men began to pull the ladder up. It was hard to do it for anyone else, but Chris was a lightweight, so it was a little easier. They'd pulled him halfway up to discover the color of the boy's hair. When he was lifted onto the helicopter, the men examined it closely, before he was dragged to another end of the oversized helicopter by Chris.

The teen slowly stroked the boy's hair, an unreadable expression on his face. He didn't look up once, and kept his eyes glued to the child in his lap. It was like they'd been brothers- except Chris had brown hair, and the boy had red. But the way Chris stroked the boy's hair was almost lovingly- but nobody really cared, considering the fact that his hair was long and handsome. In fact, half of them tried to pry the boy away from the teen, wanting to stroke his hair too. The other half just wished they were in Chris's shoes, holding the delicate little child, half frozen, in their arms.

By the time the chopper landed, all of them were staring at the boy and not listening to orders. Even the man barking orders, the Captain, was sighing in defeat, wondering what kind of parents he had to have been made into such a sight. The boy truly was a miracle. But they were eventually forced out when Chris realized the helicopter had landed. He stood up, and everyone acted like they hadn't just been staring at him for the past, well, half hour. As he exited, though, everyone craned their necks to get a look at the boy. It was just over-devotion, Chris told himself. Really.

Chris carried the boy all the way to his room, to a good bunk bed, then set him on the top bunk and shut the door. He stayed, lying on the bottom bunk, for quite a while. His eyes passed over a small bag on the ground of the room. It was his, but he hadn't left it open. Worry coursed through him and he leaped out of his bunk to make sure his secret wasn't found...

"God...oh…..dang it." His whisper echoed through the room. His secret...discovered. It meant someone had found him out...which meant he'd probably be dead. And somehow, it was that exact moment that his eyes averted to his dresser. A sigh of relief floated out of his mouth, and his eyes, which had been large, were now normal size. Chris crawled over to it, and pried out the small little box he had worried about. It was special. Very. Just in case, he opened it, gently. A burst of light exploded from inside it, and he fell back with a yell, grateful he had shut the door.

The lights, coloured red, yellow, blue, pink, green, orange, and violet, soared over Chris' head and flowed into the boy on the top bunk. The teen instantly dropped the box onto the floor, and leapt over to the boy. His hands twitched, and his eyes fluttered open to see Chris. They widened, then shut again in a moment. Chris jumped up onto the top, and felt the boy's pulse. It was there, normal. Relief returned for a split second before Chris was yet again disturbed. The door opened behind him.

"God dang mothe- oh, it's just you, sir." Chris's stiff and furious posture changed to a smoother one, as the General McCoy walked in, his uniform sleeves rolled up to above his elbows. The boots on the general's feet were the 2nd type the teen had seen him ever wear. The teen was sure that McCoy only had a total of 4 pairs of shoes, 2 before the military, and 2 during. Turned out he was right.

"Might want to pick up that little box before someone sees it." His gruff voice made its way through the room, and Chris shut the box and placed it back in his dresser.

"Do we have a mission already?" Chris looked up at the general, eyes wide with hope.

"Yes we do, Private Artis. Pack up, we're headed all the way to Kentucky. The second part of our little mission is still incomplete. We've got to finish it."

"Now, sir?"

"Now." And with that, Chris grabbed the duffel bag and, not even truly knowing why, picked up the child, then walked to Launching Area #1798.  
An elegant model of a plane stood before them, new and glossy black. They walked onto it to finish what they'd started, finish the mission. Because that's what the military bases itself off of, right? Missions leading to the goal. He was almost there. But something told him that there was another part to this mission, one he couldn't understand, and it wasn't going to be over anytime soon. That was something he was sure of.

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